Carpe Noctem (DRARRY)

Chapter 4- This Isn't A Sickfic.... I Swear

"Do you think it's funny? That you look like this? Because I'm here to tell you it's really not-"

"Hermione-" Yet she didn't stop. His words caught in his throat.

"You're worrying us! Remember when I was petrified?! It's like that!" She continued to seethe afterwards, but Harry had stopped listening.

Draco.

He was attacked...

Why was he out in the hallway at night?

At this point, Hermionie had stopped chattering and just looked at the ground.

And suddenly his throat ached. He didn't know why. He hated Draco. He hated Draco. I hate him. I do. I know it... Then why am I fucking acting like this?

"I- I'm going to go back to the dorm." His voice cracked just barely, but he managed to pull it together, swallowing and blinking a few times as the lump in his throat scratched.

Must've been a virus.

Hermione sighed and brought Harry to a bench, letting him lean on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad..."

At that, Ron appeared, and she was suddenly gone, leaving Harry with some mysterious itch in his throat and some pressure behind his eyes that just wouldn't go away.

Maybe it was realizing things wouldn't always stay the same. Maybe it was watching everyone grow older, and older, with nothing to show for it. Maybe it was because relationships change, and people change, and things change...

But who knows?

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~Draco's POV~

Asleep.

A comfortable dead-man's float disturbed only by a chill undertow of reality; the rustling of curtains, faint speech, a dizzying faraway soprano that spiralled on and on; which threaded fitfully through the dark, blood-warm waters of dream.

He woke, and before he even opened his eyes he felt cool, thin sheets draped over his hips in a wave-like tilde of crumpled papery linen. Eyelashes fluttered open- and then there was a bright glare, making him blink. It smelled like antiseptic and bile, the sad sort of last-second hope that maybe something would help.

A hospital.

Flashbacks came quick, as the monitors inside his head beeped in sterile beats. Wires pulling in his mind, blood filling syringes, faceless nurses with fake smiles that looked like they ached. Glimpses of coughing, featureless patients. Of gurneys with squeaking, stained wheels.

And then it was over, and Draco was left, gasping, with the white, sterile room. A thin sea-green curtain separated him from the rest of the world, and everything was eerily silent. He swung his legs from the bed, then doubled over, pain thundering through him. Pattering footsteps were heard moving towards him quickly, are they back?

"Ah! You're awake. Don't move quite yet; you're not fully healed. You got beaten up pretty well." A kind-looking, brown-haired woman in a decidedly horrendous dress that looked like it was from the 1800s parted the curtains suddenly and ushered him back to his original position.

"What happened? How long have I been here? Who are you?" As stereotypical as the questions seemed, it was something he needed to know. Draco nestled within the papery sheets, listening. She sighed, speaking quickly.

"Well, a group of boys were found givin' you some trouble. They made such a ruckus, and a teacher found you- took a while opening the door, though; 'twas stuck, and the key wasn't working none. By the time they wrenched it open, you had a few cracked ribs and some good bruisin'. The boys ran pretty quick, though, so they didn' get caught. How long have you been here? 'Bout, eh, a week or two? And... My name's Lala, sweetie."